Voldemort and Bellatrix were sitting in a tree. They were not K-I-S-S-I-N-G (they were much too dark and debauched for that) but an impartial viewer who knew nothing of their darkness and debauchery might have said they were cuddling. Voldemort and Bellatrix preferred to think of it as exchanging mad, passionate embraces. They certainly would have been kissing, but their position in the tree made it seem too precarious. Especially as that tree was he Whomping Willow, which despite swinging them about wildly, offered them a wonderful overhead view of the madness raging at Hogwarts. Bellatrix tried to keep focused on the particular to-ings and fro-ings of various professors, but she quickly became distracted by the leafy foliage, which made her think of her husband, who was off pursuing kappas in a place where there were no kappas. The thought filled her with a brief pang of sadness, but she consoled herself with the notion that he might very well be dead, and if not, she could probably kill him herself. Cuddling Voldemort was not a habit Bellatrix intended to give up for any old husband. Then Voldemort extended his hand to caress her belly - ostensibly because the Whomping Willow had begun trying to stab her in the stomach, but Bellatrix knew better – and she gazed into the tunnels of his lava-like eyes, and thought of nothing at all.
Voldemort, meanwhile, was entirely focused. Unfortunately, he was focused on shrubberies. He thought that, when he took over Hogwarts, he would plant shrubberies everywhere. And he would definitely put some bells and baubles on this Whomping Willow, which he hoped to rename 'The El Elegance Elegante and Bellatrix Kissing Tree." The thought of decorating foliage made Voldemort so happy he could have danced on the tree branches.
Meanwhile, Snape was in a corridor, trying to convince Hermione that his tapeworm meant – not exactly nothing to him – but considerably less than her. Hermione replied that he was probably only saying that because they were of the same species, an accusation which Snape denied, promising that if she were to become a tapeworm, he would still feel the same towards her.
Suffice to say, the minions of darkness and evil were much too distracted by hearts and flowers to stage any worthwhile overthrow of Hogwarts. Which was a pity, because it would have been an ideal time to do so.
As it was, however, the interlude meant that the forces of light and goodness had time to regroup. All except Ron, of course. Ron was eating pasties, as seemed to be his sole function whenever the forces of goodness had to regroup. The followers of goodness had recently decided that as all Ron ever seemed to do was eat food, he could accomplish his mission more effectively at the pastry shop down the street. So Harry, Professor Dumbledore, and Luna Lovegood had all gathered within Dumbledore's quarters.
Dumbledore began by giving a long and moving speech about preservation of tradition, which was entirely directed to the Wisteria plant on the windowsill over Harry's head.
"Excuse me," said Harry, "but is there a particular reason you're staring at the flowerpot over my head?"
"Reasons can be particular, my boy," replied Dumbledore.
"So can flying Thestrals," noted Luna.
"That doesn't make sense," noted Harry.
"I think if you think long and hard enough about it, you'll find that it does. Lemon drop?"
"No. Is it because you see Voldemort in my eyes?"
"That, or I might just be playing sick mind games to make you feel enormously insecure. Do bear in mind that I'm not altogether stable. If I were, I'd probably acknowledge that I am the only Wizard powerful enough to take on Voldemort, and not send a pre-teen to deal with him every single year. I'd say it's up in the air, at the moment. Or perhaps I'm trying to remember whether that's the plant Aberforth cast improper charms upon."
"I think I see signs of it having had improper charms cast upon it. Such as the fact that it's tap dancing," noted Luna.
This would have been an excellent sign of improper charms having been cast upon the plant, had the plant actually been tap dancing. It was not. It was remaining at rest in its pot, as wisteria plants are wont to do. Luna was no more stable than Dumbledore.
Harry felt a curious shiver tingling up and down his spine. His pupils dilated. His mouth dropped open. He couldn't stop himself, he shouted, "YOU MUST SPEAK TO ME WITH SOME DEGREE OF SENSE! HOGWARTS IS IN DANGER! DID YOU HEAR ME? I SAID, HOGWARTS IS IN DANGER!"
"I heard you," replied Luna, "but why are you screaming statements that could be uttered in a perfectly normal tone of voice? It's not as though we're going to take issue with them. Obviously Hogwarts is in danger. And the plants are tap dancing."
The plant continued not to tap dance. Harry gazed over at it, and then back at Luna with a worried expression, but figured now wasn't the time to alienate anyone from the Axis of Righteousness.
"I'm sorry," replied Harry meekly, "I have Caps Lock rage. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, I begin shouting in such a way that it can take up whole paragraphs. I suspect it to be the work of Voldemort."
"Shouldn't we be calling him El Elegance Elegante?" pondered Dumbledore.
"I suspect it to be the work of Voldemort's yapping gnomes from Hell," replied Luna.
The other two laughed at how absurdly whimsical Luna was. Little did they know, Voldemort actually was in contact with a yapping gnome from Hell. His name was Bob. He smoked cigars, wore a pinstripe suit, and spread Caps Lock Rage with a tap of his tiny gnomish pick-axe. On his days off, Bob liked to yodel on top of a toadstool and give lectures on how gnomes needed more rights. The threat he posed to the social system, as well as his incessant yodeling, caused many to refer to him as a Yap Gnome from Hell.
"Lets not concern ourselves with that right now," said Harry, while he wondered whether his Vicodin was beginning to wear off, "let's just establish a plan to defend Hogwarts."
"I think I should eat lemon drops," replied Dumbledore.
"Sorry," said Harry, "I think I must have misheard you."
"I said," Dumbledore enunciated clearly, "I. Should. Eat. Lemon. Drops."
"Is that a code?" asked Harry.
"I think people need to feel that everything is just as it was," noted Dumbledore.
"But Voldemort likes lemon drops," declared Luna, "seeing you eat them will only inspire him to attack and kill us all, if only so that he can have your lemon drops for himself."
Luna was being absurd again – Voldemort always carried his own bag of lemon drops. In fact, at that very moment, he and Bellatrix were eating them together, while they attempted to affix Bellatrix's sparkly earrings to the Whomping Willow's branches in the manner of Christmas ornaments. All was as it should be in Voldemort's life, and he wasn't the kind of snake-man to covet anything as unnecessary as lemon-drops.
"Well then," sighed Dumbledore, "I suppose we'll just do what we do every single year."
"Which is?" asked Harry.
"Minerva and I will threaten to close down Hogwarts, despite its being one of the few true sanctuaries in the Wizarding World, and then we'll sit back and wait until you handle it. Go with what works, I say."
"But I can't do that this year."
"Why ever not?"
Harry didn't want to admit that he no longer felt capable of tying his own shoelaces without some of Hermione's Vicodin. "Because I'm too filled with teenage angst," he grumbled, "besides, I'm tired of being your little laughing Marionette."
"My little laughing what?" asked Dumbledore – he wished he had heard that when he was still having an affair with Susan. It was the kind of term of endearment she would have loved.
"Never mind," sighed Harry.
It was at that moment that the door of Dumbledore's study opened ever so slightly. There, on the threshold, stood the figure out of Voldemort's nightmares. It was Narcissa Lestrange, radiating all the pallor and gravitas of someone who has just emerged from crying in another room.
"Hello," murmured Narcissa, smoothing her perfect blonde hair.
"Umm," said Harry.
"Why are you…" wondered Luna.
"Lemon drop?" asked Dumbledore.
"Are you just totally oblivious?" asked Harry.
"Who, me?" replied Luna, "Well, I suppose some have said so, but I also have many charming characteristics. And absolutely fabulous headwear."
"I've heard of it," noted Narcissa, nodding, "It's said not to be beautiful – quite – but more or less sublime. One's sense of the aesthetic demands certain oddities. I'm sure it would not make me quite want to die."
"High praise from you indeed," replied Dumbledore sucking a lemon drop. Narcissa grimaced. Her sense of the aesthetic didn't allow for teeth stained yellow from too many lemon drops. She thought about running away right then, but decided that she would hold her ground in her exquisite little slippers. She did try to keep in mind that Dumbledore wasn't quite as unattractive as Voldemort, he seemed at least humanoid, but he was no Gilderoy Lockheart. She wondered if, as the side of evil was composed of equal parts extremely beautiful and extremely ugly people, it was balanced by the side of good, whose participants were all rather mediocre looking. If she were honest with herself, she'd know that she'd rather be surrounded by extremes (even extreme ugliness could make her feel something, which was far better than feeling nothing at all) but she was far too tired of the dark side's antics to assess her situation with any modicum of honesty.
"Oh, very well, I suppose we'll get down to business then. Why do you want to join us?" enquired Dumbledore.
"Because I can't bear the thought of my son going over to the side of evil," wailed Narcissa. This wasn't true at all. She didn't care what Draco did so long as he did it with immaculately coifed hair. But she was frankly getting sick and tired of being crushed under falling rose petals. It's was almost impossible to be lyrical and poignant under that many rose petals.
"How do we know you're not lying to us?" demanded Harry.
"I'm not going to wheedle with you to let me help you. However, I think you should bear in mind that, contrary to popular belief, I am the only one Voldemort ever feared."
"I thought you were the only one Voldemort ever feared," Harry said to Dumbledore.
"Well, we're certainly not friendly," sighed Dumbledore.
"He's only miffed at you for stealing his lemon-drop bit," sighed Narcissa with derision. "I, on the other hand, can make him flee in terror. He's unable to withstand the awesome power of my tears – they are as bitter as my countenance is lovely."
Dumbledore knew it was true. He had hoped no one would ever find out, but he remembered Narcissa reducing Voldemort to tears when she was only a student. Obviously, that was back when his tear ducts still functioned. While it was quite possible that Voldemort could be defeated by Harry Potter, how much easier it would be for the Axis of Virtue if Narcissa were to overwhelm him with feelings of inadequacy until he, say, jumped off a cliff. Dumbledore nodded a knowing nod.
"I think," Dumbledore said, "your tear ducts could be a valuable weapon. What did you have in mind in return?"
"Oh, nothing much…"
"If I know my Slytherins, it will be something."
"I'd like to enforce a eugenics policy after Voldemort's defeat. It will be called the Narcissa Marriage Law Challenge, and challenging it shall be indeed. You see, I'm so overwhelmed by ugliness. I really can't bear to live in a world that's so unattractive. I've found that I can minimize my displeasure as far as objects go – I maintain a standard of aesthetic excellence around my own home at least – but there's always the problem of people. People can be most bothersome. You see, if they're really ugly, no "changes over the summer," no makeovers, can make them live up to my standard of physical perfection. It's most bothersome for me, you see. So what I propose is passing a law – you can have Fudge do it, if you want – which prevents ugly people from breeding. All attractive people will be married off to one another, thus producing a race of increasingly beautiful wizards. The ugly people will, needless to say, be castrated.
"Who would act as the arbiter of beauty?" wondered Luna, who seemed curiously undisturbed. Narcissa, after all, had complemented her hats, so she felt nothing very bad would happen to her.
"What a silly question," Narcissa drawled, "I would, naturally."
There was a moment of silence. In that moment everyone in the room seriously assessed their physical characteristics and every one of them decided that they alone were attractive enough to breed. Narcissa sat there and thought about what a service it would be to cast the other three's DNA out of the gene pool.
"Well, that sounds fine to me!" exclaimed Dumbledore, while thinking about how "The Narcissa Marriage Law Challenge" would mean there would be more supple young females running about for him to breed with.
The other two nodded cheerfully. Narcissa felt almost happy. She would be happier, of course, if the other people in the room weren't so ugly, but soon there would be no ugly people anywhere!
Yes, it seemed to be a moment of great – if very bizarre – hope for the Order.
But Dumbledore, Dumbledore in his infinite wisdom, knew that there was one more who would be indispensable in their battle against the Army of Evil. And that one lived in a jar of formaldehyde.
So he crept down stealthily into Snape's office, and approached Trevor in his jar. Trevor wasn't busy; he was just sitting there crying as he'd been doing for the past 72 hours. He couldn't even bring himself to eat the tiny chunks of tapeworm food placed in his jar. Trevor, obviously, was feeling vulnerable. So when Dumbledore leaned down and spoke to him in his own language – Dumbledore didn't publicize it, but he was a Tapletongue – he couldn't resist the offer to join the Side of Light. Later, much later, when the whole affair was long over, Trevor would think to himself that he could have said "no." He could have said "I will not betray the man I love." But at the time all he said was, "Let me strangle Hermione Granger with my intestinal body."